


Ineffable

by That_One_Hufflepuff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ace Aziraphale - Freeform, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, How Do I Tag, I Tried, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, he just isn't into it what can i say, i haven't written shit in a long time please be gentle, i promise they'll kiss eventually, probably way too much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_One_Hufflepuff/pseuds/That_One_Hufflepuff
Summary: After the Apoca-wasn't, things go back to normal. Well, their normal.Almost normal?... It isn't really normal at all, for fuck's sake. It's an angel and a demon and they're hideously in love with each other. This is definitely not normal. But here we are. Aziraphale and Crowley are head-over-heels for each other. Neither is willing to make a move.Welcome to the post- End Times.





	1. Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Not the greatest summary, I know. I haven't written in ages, but this pairing was just so amazing that I honestly couldn't resist writing something. I'm not sure how long the whole slow-burn aspect is going to last (my guess is not as long as I'm hoping), but it will end, I promise! I have a few chapters written and I'll try to keep them coming as long as possible. I just realized I have no long-term plan for this fic, so... we'll see where she goes!  
> Anyways, enjoy!

Ineffable. Adjective. Meaning: too great or extreme to be expressed by words. Synonyms: indescribable, inexpressible, beyond words, beyond description. 

In layman’s terms: something too beautiful or too terrible to describe. The English language (or any other language, for that matter) could never do it justice. As in, the ineffable plan: something too great for human, or angelic, or demonic minds to comprehend.

_As in, ineffable husbands._

~~~

They’re sitting in Aziraphale’s bookshop. It’s very, very late at night: if the blinds weren’t drawn, it would be black as pitch outside. The sign was flipped to “Closed” hours upon hours ago. The back room of the shop is filled with the sounds of classical music that’s being played at too many RPM on Aziraphale’s record player. An emerald couch and a pleasantly beige armchair sit at angles, each ridiculously plush and soft as anything.

There’s a bottle of fine wine (or two, or... maybe three) on a table somewhere, and a wineglass abandoned on the floor. Crowley’s sunglasses lie across the couch from where he’s sprawled, nearly upside down on the deep green cushions.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is a bit more refined: sitting (with one leg up on an armrest and his head leaning to the side) in his favorite armchair

“You know, Crowley. This... chair? Yes, a chair. It’s soft.”

“Is it as soft as dolphin fur, though?”

“Mmmm... maybe?”

“Well... maybe isn’t good enough, Angel! I need a yes or a no!”

Their speech, slurred and nonsensical, fills the room.

“I... I...” Aziraphale stutters, somewhat unable to form complete thoughts and a bit taken aback by Crowley’s outburst.

“Here here, lemme...” Crowley flops around on the couch until he makes it to a somewhat upright position and then stands, weaving gently. He walks the few short steps to Aziraphale’s chair unevenly and slaps a hand onto the armrest. He misses Aziraphale’s leg by an inch, and the angel flinches slightly, though Crowley doesn’t notice the small movement.

“Nope,” he says, after patting the armrest for a few seconds. “Not as soft...” he trails off with a sigh. He continues leaning against the back of Aziraphale’s chair, apparently lacking the conviction necessary to move back over to his couch. Silence consumes them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, craning his neck up and around to look at him and catching the demon’s attention in an instant, “I haven’t been this drunk in ages.”

“Neither have I, angel, neither have I.”

They sit in silence for another minute or so.

“Should I, that is to say, should we... sober up?” 

“Can’t see the harm in staying drunk for another few minutes,” Crowley says, his head lolling to the side. “I mean, it is kind of nice.” 

Aziraphale gives a tipsy nod and agrees in silence. The rosy drunken fog is, really, quite peaceful. Everything seems at once muted and called into sharp relief. The shop is quiet, except for the faint static of the record. It’s finished playing, but neither of them have yet had the presence of mind to turn it off.

They both stand or sit rather comfortably, sleepy, perfectly fine with the fact that it is now approaching one o’clock in the morning. Aziraphale never (or almost never) sleeps, but Crowley does, and a very, very small part of his brain is telling him to go to sleep and that he will be regretting this in the morning. 

But he can’t help himself. If Aziraphale is staying up, so is he, dammit, because it’s rude to fall asleep on your host’s floor and, really, he can’t get enough of the angel. He’s beautiful, and perfect, and so angelically innocent it’s almost funny, and perfect, and everything about him from the tips of his pale, pale hair to the toes of his obnoxiously polished shoes screams “I AM THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEING TO HAVE EVER EXISTED, EVER!” at Crowley every second they’re together. 

And, sure, Crowley has… hooked up with people in the past, but it never felt exactly right. He’s always been a bit soft, for a demon (the only person who’s ever said that to him and meant it as a compliment also happens to be the only other person in the room), and while he doesn’t believe in soulmates by any means, Aziraphale has always felt like his other half, in one way or another. First, he was just an acquaintance, the only friendly person in Eden. Then he became a friend as the millennia passed, and then a best friend. They’ve always been forced to keep their distance, though: too much time spent in the other’s company and their respective divisions could become suspicious. It was obnoxious on two counts, really. On the one hand, Crowley detests the affection he feels, it’s gross and sugary and absolutely _not_ how a demon should feel about anyone, not for any reason. On the other hand, he really secretly wants the space to figure out how to reconcile himself: the part that shattered when he arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop only to find it in flames and the part that finds the very idea disgusting.

But now, after the whole end-times screwup and the lovely trick they played during the trials, they’ve become relatively free. Their administrations will no longer be expecting reports or watching over their every move. So, if he really wanted to, he could ask Aziraphale if he’d be interested in─

“Crowley, are you mumbling something?” Aziraphale cranes his head around again with a confused little grin on his face. Crowley hates him for it.

“Oh, it’s nothing, angel,” he responds, hoping it doesn’t sound like the shitty cover-up it is. He must be _really_ drunk─ he never thinks out loud, not like that.

“I think, maybe, it’s time to sober up now?” Crowley nods reluctantly. He watches as Aziraphale concentrates for a second, drawing the alcohol out of their bodies and back into the bottle where it came from. There’s an awful taste in his mouth and they both smack their lips for a second, trying to rid themselves of it, but he is now undeniably sober. 

And now that he is, he’s mentally kicking himself. Ask Aziraphale? Interested in what, exactly? Crowley knows that angels don’t usually engage in… relationships of any kind (though there are some that certainly do, and they’re very smug about it). Even if he were to ask, Aziraphale would most likely say something along the lines of “no”. He’s never been, for as long as Crowley can remember (and that’s a very long time), interested in sex or really anything related. He scowls. It’s all so _bloody_ unfair.

“Well, angel, I think I’d better go,” Crowley says, with an undeniable pout in his voice. He picks up his sunglasses from where they’d been abandoned on the couch and starts to head towards the door, unfolding them as he goes.

“Wait!” Aziraphale yelps suddenly. Crowley whips back around to see him leaning around his chair and seeming a little embarrassed by his own outburst. He reels his tone in a little. “Can’t you stay a while?” His face is so sweet, eyes practically pleading with Crowley to stay the night. He’s irresistible, and Crowley hates him for it. There’s a tug-of-war going on in his head and he stops walking backwards, pinching the bridge of his nose in his hands. One side of him screams _YES! STAY!_ and the other screams back _GO HOME, IT ISN’T WORTH IT_. 

“I really can’t,” he says, and something inside of him crumbles as he sees Aziraphale deflate. “I have some… things I need to take care of.” He hates the pitiful excuse he makes, but he has to keep going because he’s already said no. A disappointed silence fills the room. “Lunch tomorrow?”

Aziraphale lights up and a corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches up involuntarily. “Oh, that would be _lovely_ ,” Aziraphale says. His smile is like a beacon, and Crowley gravitates toward him for a second, but then he shakes himself a little and turns on a dime.

“See you tomorrow, angel,” he says as he moves up to the doors at the front of the shop, opening them and stepping out into the cool evening─ morning?─ night air. 

“Goodbye, Crowley!” Aziraphale calls from behind him. The door slams shut and he can hear the faint jingle of a bell and a somewhat frantic, muted “ _Drive safely!_ ” as he walks around to the driver’s side of his Bentley and gets in.

There’s a word for this feeling, he realizes. It’s an old word, a word he’s heard countless millions of times in countless hundreds of languages over the years. It always felt forbidden, as though a demon shouldn’t─ or, _couldn’t_ ─ be able to feel such a thing. It’s buried, he supposes, shoved into some bizarre corner of his mind. It makes sense, he thinks: any adjective applicable to this situation would be an awful thing for a demon to be thinking. What is it, though? He searches through the memory files in his head, looking for the word. It’s in here somewhere, what _is it?_

Then, after a near-collision with a lamp post (thank… Satan? for demonic miracles) it comes to him. 

Love. He is in love with Aziraphale.


	2. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet for lunch. Conversations are had. Conclusions are reached. Adorableness happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! This one I had written when I had chapter 1 done, but I saved it a little. I'm trying to work ahead so I don't have to sweat if I run up against a wall, but we'll see how that works. I'm currently working on chapter 3, so that should be up soonish. Anyway, here's today's update. Enjoy!

It’s 11:32, on the dot, and Crowley has just spotted Aziraphale across a field. They’re meeting, as usual, in Green Park, a short walk away from the Ritz. Usually, it’s Aziraphale who is obnoxiously punctual and Crowley who arrives late and smelling faintly of burning rubber, but today the tables have turned, and Crowley is mildly surprised.

He watches Aziraphale walk towards him, waiting for the moment the angel notices that he’s waiting on their favorite bench. It is, more or less, exactly what he expected, though slightly more adorable. Upon first notice-ment, Aziraphale’s face lights up, a bright grin breaking across his face, but then a line of worry forms between his brows and his brings his hands up to his stomach, wringing them together as he quickens his pace.

“Crowley, I am so sorry,” he says as soon as Crowley is within earshot, “I had an order for a book that I just couldn’t find and I just had to send it before I left and then I was out of packaging and─”

“Angel, don’t worry about it. I’ve only been waiting for a few minutes,” he says, attempting to reassure him. Aziraphale nods, face relaxing into his usual pleasant grin after a few seconds. “Shall we?” Crowley asks, sweeping an arm in the general direction of the Ritz. 

“I’d love to,” Aziraphale grins, and Crowley can’t help but give a small smile back. 

“What are you doing with yourself these days, Crowley?”

The question comes just after the main dishes are brought. Aziraphale is eating happily, while Crowley picks at food he ordered mostly for the angel’s benefit. He thinks seriously for a second, and is mildly surprised when the only answer he can come up with is _‘spending time with you and trying to figure my head out’_. Since this is most likely not an acceptable answer, he settles instead for a sort of half-truth.

“Not much.”

“It’s quite a relief not to have the miraculous status quo hanging over our heads, isn’t it? Leaves plenty of room for… a more normal life,” Aziraphale says, looking unsure about what he just said.

“And by ‘normal,’ do you mean ’human?’” Crowley asks, deliberately poking at the holes in Aziraphale’s point.

“Not really,” says Aziraphale, brows knitting together. “Although I suppose it could be taken that way.” Crowley smiles. The way Aziraphale overthinks things─ not the things he overthinks, not the frequency, not the importance, the _way_ ─ is absolutely adorable. He can’t resist poking holes in every argument, every point he makes, because Aziraphale immediately spirals into an odd cycle of strange justifications and fidgeting. It probably shouldn’t be as cute as it is, but at this point, he figures, it doesn’t really matter, does it? If he’s at the point where he’s using the word “love” (he scowls internally at it) to describe his feelings towards the angel, he’s as good as gone.

“... but anyway, if you ever find yourself in need of something to do, you’re always welcome around the bookshop. Plenty to do there,” Aziraphale finishes, and Crowley realizes he had checked out for the majority of Aziraphale’s monologue. Now, the angel is fiddling with his napkin, in a way that makes it seem as though he’s almost afraid of what he just said. Crowley brushes it away, it probably isn’t important─ and besides, Aziraphale is the one who analyzes every interaction, not Crowley. He sure as hell isn’t about to start now.

“Well, thanks, angel, maybe I’ll take you up on the offer someday.” Aziraphale smiles, pleased, and continues with his food. If there’s a hint of color in his cheeks, Crowley is _not_ about to comment on it.

The rest of lunch passes comfortably, and Crowley even decides to eat some of his food. It’s an alien experience, really, though he must admit it is a pleasant one. Especially since Aziraphale is here─ if he wasn’t Crowley would most likely not even be inside the restaurant, not even close. But having lunch with him offers a lovely chance to just be _with_ the angel, in his presence, seeping up every second of his smile. 

By the time lunch is over and they’re calling for a check (and good lord, Aziraphale can take _forever_ to eat when he wants to), it’s started to rain outside. Very, very hard. It falls in a heavy, gray curtain, obscuring objects even just a small ways down the street. A haze is present on every surface that the drops fall on, due to the splashes caused by each fat raindrop. Clouds of water blow from the rooftops. The sky is dim, and there is no blue in sight.

Although Aziraphale’s bookshop isn’t very far, less than ten blocks away and a comfortable walk, Crowley jumps on the opportunity to give him a ride. Aziraphale’s concern for pedestrians, like everything else about him, is cute and amusing to watch. 

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale says as they stand just inside the doors, “It really is too far to walk home in this mess. Even with an umbrella.”

“You know, angel, I could always give you a ride…” Crowley asks, and damn if he doesn’t wish that his powers of temptation worked on angels, just for insurance. He can see Aziraphale descend into an internal turmoil at the suggestion.

“Okay,” Aziraphale tells him, nodding decisively. “As long as you don’t kill anyone.”

“When do I ever do that, angel?” Crowley asks, a genuine smile crossing his face. 

Aziraphale miracles a few umbrellas for the two of them, and together, they dash out into the rain, braving the cold, wet atmosphere. The Bentley is parked near Green Park Station, less than a block and a half away. Once they duck safely inside its cool and notably sheltered interior, Aziraphale clicks his seatbelt into place and slaps Crowley’s arm when he refrains. The demon rolls his eyes before pulling the black belt across his body and finally rotating the key in its socket. The car rumbles to life, the tapping of the rain on the roof, the glass, the sides of the car all-consuming and relaxing.

Crowley pulls the car out of its parking spot and after that it’s miracle after demonic miracle keeping them and everyone in a hundred-foot radius alive. It’s insane, but somehow fun, too. The adrenaline that spikes its way through every vein in Crowley’s body is a very, very lovely chemical. Being taken over by its tide is… scary, yes, but exhilarating. Fun… at least for Crowley. A glance over at Aziraphale proves that he is as white as a sheet, knuckles even paler as they grip at any (and every) available object. After a particularly near miss, Crowley feels a hand on his arm.

“DEAR Lord, Crowley do be careful,” Aziraphale says, voice slightly shaky.

“But, angel, I am,” Crowley shoots back, because he does like antagonizing people, and Aziraphale is no exception.

“No, you most definitely are _not_ ,” the angel says, and suddenly the hand is gripping his upper arm like a vise: so hard that Crowley will definitely lose circulation in his hand if it keeps up for a few minutes. Though his eyebrows climb up his forehead at the force of Aziraphale’s grip, he makes no move to shake the angel off, and even decreases his speed by ten or fifteen notches. 

The upside of this mode of travel is that one can go almost anywhere very, very quickly. They arrive at the bookshop in only a few minutes, and to Crowley it seems as though the ride had barely started by the time he is pulling up to the curb. As soon as they reach a full stop and the car is in park, Aziraphale’s seat belt whips upward as it retracts and the angel is halfway out of the car before Crowley can get a word in edgewise. 

“I’ll call you?” he asks, leaning over the center of the car to see Aziraphale’s face just one last time. 

“Sounds lovely,” Aziraphale says, closing the door with maybe just a little more force than strictly necessary. He walks around the rear of the car and up onto the sidewalk, but just before his hand reaches the doorknob with his key, Aziraphale hears Crowley call to him from the car.

“Bye, angel!” he says, and Aziraphale can hear the grin in his voice.

“Goodbye, Crowley,” he calls back over his shoulder. Then there’s the revving of an engine and the screech of tires, and Aziraphale unlocks his shop and slips inside to the warm interior. 

He makes a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a wistful sigh once the door is firmly closed behind him. The smile on his face is embarrassingly giddy.

Maybe, maybe, there’s a grain-of-sand sized piece of him that takes enjoyment from all the near misses, although terror far outweighs any enjoyment. Getting in a car with Crowley behind the wheel is still very far down on his list of things he likes to do. But if Crowley is offering him a ride, he’s going to take it, because it’s rude to refuse an offer like that, and, really, he can’t get enough of the demon. He’s handsome, and perfect, and just the right amount of demonically rebellious, and perfect, and everything about him from the tips of his flaming, reddish hair to the toes of his scuffed and worn-in shoes screams “I AM THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEING TO HAVE EVER EXISTED, EVER!” at Aziraphale every second they’re together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving for camp next Sunday, so I'm gonna try to write as much as possible before then so I can dump some chapters on you guys after I get back. After that happens I'll hopefully be updating weekly, if not more often. All the kudos make me so happy, thank you guys for taking the time to push that lil button :) Stay tuned!


	3. The Bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Aziraphale chillin at home. Plus like a sort of house tour? Idk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so much longer to update! More notes on update schedule at the end but enjoy chapter 3!

According to Crowley, Aziraphale devotes too much time to his bookshop. To him, having a flat located directly above it is too much. He’s suggested buying one closer to Green Park or in an entirely different neighborhood multiple times.

Aziraphale, obviously, has never been convinced.

His shop is his life, his center, the hub of all he does. It’s a cluttered mess, every surface a receptacle for books of all kinds. The main shop houses the grand majority of his books, leaving the back room more or less open to other uses. There are, of course, the couch and the armchair, perched in a corner next to a table and a cabinet of wine glasses, but there’s also a staircase: one flight up to the rooms on the second floor, one flight down to the basement, where the wine is kept. Although Aziraphale doesn’t sleep and doesn’t technically _need_ to eat (though he does anyway), he keeps a tidy little living space up above. The one that the stairs come up into has a counter and a sink along one wall. An electric kettle is kept plugged in there, and an ample collection of mugs, teas, and cocoa supplies is available in the cabinets. There’s a bathroom with all the necessities, and the final room contains a wardrobe full of clothes and a couch that just happens to have a pullout bed. It’s a very comfy couch.

Aziraphale drinks a lot of tea and a lot of cocoa, and there are mugs scattered in every corner of the shop on all three floors. He can be found nursing a cup of something at all hours of the day─ occasionally tea, but usually cocoa. The kind with milk, obviously. Cocoa with water is a creation influenced by Crowley, and it is, in Aziraphale’s opinion, an abomination.

Needless to say, not a single book has ever had a drink spilled on it, except for the one which had been handed to him covered in coffee stains a few hundred years ago. His books are his most prized possessions, and he does everything in his power to keep them safe. Tomes to which he has become particularly attached are now being kept in a fireproof safe, an idea provided by Crowley after the incident─ the Apoca-not? Apoca-wasn’t? Aziraphale had latched onto that thought quickly and set about installing one almost as soon as it was suggested. 

This particular morning, a lovely (and somehow sunny) Thursday, finds Aziraphale taking his cup of oolong downstairs and into his bookshop. The blinds that he leaves down for the night are raised, the door unlocked, and the sign switched to ‘Open,’ which it declares in a lovely, curly, inviting sort of script. There’s some mail on his welcome mat, some letters and newspaper splayed out in a mess of off-white paper and stamps. Some of the envelopes are spam, some of them are bills, some of them are miscellaneous information. He gathers them into a pile and carries them over to his lovely antique desk. He grabs his letter opener, sits down, and begins.

The desk, located to the side of his shop, faces the windows and is used for _everything_. He reads orders, fills out forms, makes up packages and drinks morning tea; he gets into heavily involved conversations with his patrons about this book or that series, he takes and makes calls, he manages his life from that desk. Everything (well, most things, with the notable exception of eating) happens at this desk.

He grabs his letter opener and begins. First a notice, which he reads (an announcement about a new play opening at the theater); then a bill, which he sets aside for later; then another notice, much funnier than the first: it’s yet another trying to persuade him to come to church. The irony of these never fails to make him chuckle.

Three envelopes of strange coupons, some various bills, and a few more notices later, he comes upon one that looks different. Lovely creamy envelope, embossed return address, fancy script declaring his name. He flips it over─ _actual wax!_ It’s not every day that you get a letter with an actual wax seal these days, he thinks wryly. 

It can’t be from Heaven: they’d never spend time creating such a lovely little package. Hell is out of the question as well. It clearly isn’t a bill, it isn’t in the style of anyone he knows, and there isn’t even a return address so he _really_ can’t tell who it’s from.

The wax seal comes undone with a soft _click_. He pulls out a sheet of paper. It’s an invitation to… something in Tadfield? That doesn’t quite make sense. Sure, he was there for the whole meeting-of-the-riders and Satan’s tantrum and Adam saving the world, but none of them really got to know each other. They went their separate ways as soon as possible. The script is curly and beautiful, written in a peacock-blue ink. 

_Join us for tea?_ it reads, and then there’s an address for a Jasmine Cottage. It’s signed by one _Anathema Device_. 

“Ah,” he says aloud. “The witch.” Why, exactly, the witch is inviting him for tea is beyond him, but his guess is that it has something to do with the Apoca-wasn’t. He sets down the letter and a bell jingles, alerting him to a customer who has just walked through the door.

You would think that, being the owner of a bookshop, Aziraphale would try to sell his books. You would think that, after it’s burning down and subsequent resurrection, he would have changed his stance on the selling of his books. 

You would be wrong. 

With the exception of the new stock (added, presumably, by Adam Young himself), Aziraphale protects his books like a dragon protects his hoard. As a general rule, Heaven takes care of his expenses on earth, and the ones that it doesn’t cover he can easily take care of through the miracle-ing of money into existence. He doesn’t need to sell his books, not by any means. The shop is just a way to keep them. 

Occasionally certain people make a particularly good impression and, if he’s willing to part with the book they want, he’ll sell it to them. Particular collections, including the ones inside the safe in his back room, are absolutely off limits, but there are a few piles closer to the front that contain volumes that he’s slightly less fond of. They are few and far between.

This particular man seems particularly set on a book which Aziraphale had been meaning to move to the back. It’s a lovely one with a gorgeous cover illustration, a collection of Shakespeare’s works that he’d managed to get signed on the back. The man does not realize this.

“How much for this one?” he asks, holding up the book. “I do love Shakespeare. Been meaning to get some of his, a collection seems like a great opportunity.” 

He can’t be mean to the man. He just can’t. He seems so honest and well-meaning, and damn it all now Aziraphale is starting to _sympathize_ with him, and now he’s going to sell the book and all will be lost and oh, bugger… 

“Ah.. It’s, that is to say, the book isn’t for sale.” Generally he would leave it at that and try to shoo the man out, but he does have a less comprehensive version, unsigned, rather plain looking. It should be somewhere around here. “Just a display copy. I do have another collection somewhere around here that I could give you for ￡21,” he says, one half cursing himself and the other making excuses.

He finds the volume relatively easily and hands it to the man, who had set down the signed copy where he’d found it. It’s a fairly thick book, hardcover, and it has about five plays in total. The man smiles and nods as he flips to the table of contents, apparently pleased with the selection. 

“I’ll take it,” he says, and reaches in his pocket for his wallet. ￡21 is shelled out and Aziraphale takes the money, handing over the book for the final time. The man smiles at him and he smiles back, less enthusiastically than usual. He watches the book leave the shop. Then he sits down.

It’s a strange feeling.

On the one hand, he has just parted with a book which he had kept in tip-top condition for hundreds of years. On the other hand, the man was truly happy with his purchase. 

Maybe it would be good to keep a few more books that he’d be able to _sell_ on hand. Making people happy is very, very fun.

A few more people come and go. Sometimes they ask for something that he has no sellable equivalent, sometimes they ask for something and he parts with it. Eventually it gets darker and after one last person leaves (this one with an anthology of poems from various authors), he switches the sign to ‘Closed’ and lets the blinds down. He goes into the back and flops down in his favorite armchair, picking up his current read and burying himself in it. For a while, there’s nothing but him, and his book, and the quiet air.

But then thoughts start creeping in. There’s only so long one can sit with an empty, present mind, after all.

He’s not sure quite why, but his mind shifts over to Crowley. A friend of 6,000 years, a good one at that. For all six thousand years that he’s known the demon, he’s felt nothing but an amiable sort of friendship towards him but, cheesy as it is, over the past fifty to a hundred years that’s been changing; faster now that their heads of office have been paying less and less attention to them. 

He never got the chance to really think over their relationship: it occurred so slowly that he barely realized that anything had developed. There was something there, of course; he had broken it that day at the bandstand. He’d never wanted to, but it felt like the best course of action at the time. It had been a silly decision, he decides, a very silly one indeed. 

While sitting in his chair, he decides something else. 

Sex, as a general rule, is disgusting. _Well, not disgusting, that’s a rather strong word, he thinks, just… not desirable_. Kissing, on the other hand, is not. Neither is holding hands. A mental list is created: why, he can’t exactly figure out, but something niggling at the back of his brain is telling him to just sort out what on earth he actually wants. 

Love is a good thing. Most parts of it, at least. And he thinks that maybe, _maybe,_ that might just be what he’d felt shattering between him and Crowley when he’d desperately cried “It’s over” into the glum air.

Maybe he is, in fact, in love with Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok so the main reason this took so long to update was because I like being a little ahead and having a bit of a safety net and I was waiting to post chapter 3 until I had at least a page of chapter 4 set in stone. Of course, I didn't get anything done. I don't know why but this fic is fighting me bigtime right now and the writer's block is setting in very hard. I am leaving for two weeks on Sunday so there won't be any updates but I'm going to try and write something while I'm away so I can transfer that to my computer and get another update up as soon as possible.


End file.
